Gone with the Wind
by Elf Eye
Summary: Willy nilly, Gimli takes a bath.


**Gone with the Wind**

            "Aragorn."

            No answer.

            "Aragorn."

            Still no answer.

            **"Aragorn!"******

Aragorn's attention returned to the world of Middle Earth. ("Probably thinkin' about Arwen again," thought Gimli.  "Not healthy, that.  Get himself run through by an Orc while he's moonin' over her.")

            "What is it, Gimli?"

            "Aragorn, you've known Legolas a long while, haven't ye?  I mean, from the way he stood up for you at the Council of Elrond, it was obvious that you two go way back."

            Aragorn smiled.  "I encountered Legolas a few times in the course of my wanderings as a Ranger."

            Gimli snorted.  "You weigh your words as if they were gold."

            Aragorn laughed.

            "Gimli, yes, Legolas and I have long been friends.  Remember that I was fostered amongst the Elves, in Rivendell.  I met Legolas there and also spent time in his company during my visits to Mirkwood."

            "Good.  Then mayhap you can clear up a mystery about that peculiar Elf."

            "Peculiar?"

            "Well, he's an Elf, hain't he—and so by definition peculiar."

            "I think I will not enter into that debate.  What is it you wish to know?"

            "Aragorn, look at me.  Wouldn't you say I'm a wee bit grubby?"

            "Oh, yes, I would not gainsay that.  You are, at the very least, 'a wee bit grubby'."

            Gimli glowered at Aragorn.  "That's not all—friend.  Now considerin' yeself, wouldn't you say **you're** a wee bit grubby?"

            Aragorn grinned, rubbing his hand over his stubbled cheek. "Oh, indubitably.  I am grubby and disheveled, my appearance most disreputable, not what one would expect of the future King of Gondor.  It is a most excellent disguise, is it not?"

            "Oh, yes, indeed it is—the Dark Lord won't be able to recognize you because he'll be unable to peer through the dirt!"

            The two companions laughed.

            "But, Aragorn, I truly do wish you to clear up a mystery.  Legolas was with us when the entrance to Moria was brought down by that lake monster."

            "Yes?"

            "Well, we were all dusted with dirt—except for Legolas.  Did you not notice?"

            "Indeed I did not.  I had other things on my mind, such as whether or not Gandalf would be able to lead us from that tomb."

            Gimli bridled at hearing Moria referred to as a 'tomb', but he checked his tongue.  His curiosity was greater than his irritation.

            "Legolas battled alongside us against the cave troll.  He fled with us from the Orcs and the balrog.  When we emerged from Moria, we were all scratched, bruised, and dirty, our clothes torn and soiled—but Legolas merely had a few smudges on his face!  How does Legolas manage to stay so clean when all about him are becoming caked with mud, blood, pitch, and excrement."

            "Excrement?"

            "Oh, you know what I mean—horseshit.  We've all stepped in it—except, apparently, Legolas.  And if Legolas was ever splattered with Orc blood during a battle, I swear he must have stopped to wipe it off.  Or does grime simply blow off him in the wind?"

            Aragorn grinned at the thought that Legolas would pause during a fight in order to clean himself.  But it was true that Legolas managed to keep preternaturally unsoiled.

            "Elves, as you know, place a premium on cleanliness.  They have learned to carry themselves so as to avoid grime in most situations.  Legolas is simply more adept even than most Elves at fending off filth.  He has made it his particular study."

            Gimli stared at Aragorn.  "He has made it his particular study to avoid getting dirty?  He's peculiar regardless of his being an Elf!"

            "Ah, but there is a reason for his, ah, intense desire to avoid dirt.  He had a rather unfortunate experience when he was an elfling.  I'm afraid it's all tied up with Elladan and Elrohir."

            Gimli nodded.  He hadn't stopped long at Rivendell, but he'd been there long enough to become leery of Elrond's twin sons.  "I should have known that those two would be mixed up in the story somehow."

Aragorn sighed.  "Yes, the twins have always been, ah, creative when it comes to entertaining their guests.  They are skilled at honing in on that which would be most irritating to the targets of their pranks.  It did not take Elladan and Elrohir long to realize that Legolas disliked dirt a trifle more than the average Elf.  And so, of course, they set out to dirty him as thoroughly as they might."

Gimli's eyes gleamed.  "Did they?  Good for them!"

"They filched a kettle from the kitchen and cooked up a foul brew.  I don't know what all they included in their concoction, but I can assure you that athelas was not one of the ingredients!  What I do know is that pitch **was."**

            "Pitch.  Oh, excellent.  I begin to think better of those two."

            "They positioned the kettle in a tree so that they could upend it on Legolas just **after** he had finished bathing in his favorite pool—but **before he had a chance to pull on any clothes."**

            Gimli fell back on the ground and guffawed.  "Better and better!  I must make something out of mithril for those twins!"

            "Elrond stayed up the better part of a night experimenting with herbs, trying to concoct a potion that would loosen the pitch.   In the end, he had to resort to scraping off the better part of the sticky mess.  Legolas could be heard howling in the Hall of Fire, where I had gone to hide—I believe I may have forgotten to mention that I had served as Elladan and Elrohir's lookout."  Aragorn smirked at Gimli, who was now doubled over and gasping with laughter.

            "Perhaps the greatest indignity that Legolas suffered was the cutting of his hair.  His head had to be shaved to the scalp, for no matter how Elrond tried, there was no way to remove the pitch from Legolas' long locks. 

            Tears were now rolling down Gimli's cheeks.

            "After Elrond had cleaned up Legolas as best he could, Legolas stood, hands clenched, and declared, **"As the Valar are my witness, I will ****never be dirty again!"**

            Gimli stared at Aragorn.  "He said that, really?  Took a vow never to be dirty again?"

            Aragorn nodded. "And believe me, my friend, Elves take their vows seriously.  It's a brave piece of mud indeed that tries to take up residence on Legolas's vambraces!"

 Just then a branch at the edge of the clearing was pushed aside as Legolas returned from his watch.  Aragorn and Gimli nodded in greeting.

"Aragorn, I do not sense the nearness of any foes."

"Ah, that is good to know.  Gimli, it is my watch now.  You will want to sleep.  And you should rest too, Legolas.  By the passage of the stars, I see that you have kept watch longer than was your due.  You must be tired."

"No, Aragorn, I feel no need to rest.  I am going to bathe in that pond that we passed not so far back."

Gimli made a muffled sound, something between a snort and a giggle.  Legolas gazed at him, a look of concern on his face.

"Gimli, are you well?  Would you rather that I stay in camp with you?"

"No," gasped Gimli. "Do not let me keep you from your bath!"

Legolas stared suspiciously at Gimli and then at Aragorn as well.

"Aragorn?"

Aragorn leaped to his feet.  "I must take up my watch.  I have taken a vow that I will **never be ambushed again."**

Legolas's eyes widened.  "Aragorn, you didn't!"

But Aragorn had fled the clearing, leaving Legolas with a guilty-faced Gimli, who made haste to curl himself up in his bedroll.

"Uh, well, lad, I'd best be followin' Aragorn's orders.  Need my beauty rest, I do."

Legolas ground his teeth.  "Gimli, are you familiar with the concept of 'vengeance'.

Gimli opened an eye to peer at Legolas.  "Vengeance?  So what are you going to do—wash me?"  The Dwarf grinned.

"Don't put it past me," Legolas growled.  "You may be soaked when you least expect it."

"Make it easier for me to get muddy if I'm wet, won't it?  And keep this in mind—I can get dirty faster'n you can get clean!"

Legolas's shoulders slumped.  "Oh, very well, Gimli, stay filthy!  There isn't enough water in that pond to wash more than half of you anyway!" called the Elf over his shoulder as he marched out of the clearing.

Left alone, Gimli settled himself more comfortably into his bedroll and drifted off toward sleep.  Just as he began to dream of the caverns of the Lonely Mountain, he felt a drop of water on his nose.  He shot bolt upright.

"Legolas!" he roared.  But the clearing was empty.  Suspiciously, the Dwarf peered up into the trees.  No Elf was perched above him, but Gimli noticed something odd.  The day had been clear—not a cloud in the sight from dawn to dusk.  And not a quarter of an hour ago, the stars had shone clear.  But now the stars were obscured by an unbroken layer of clouds.  How had those clouds moved in so fast?  And there had been no wind.

Another drop fell, and another.  Soon Gimli found himself in a downpour.  His clothes were quickly soaked, and rivulets of water ran down Gimli's face, leaving muddy tracks behind.  Cold and wet, Gimli was altogether miserable.  Perhaps, he thought, it had been a mistake to pry into Legolas's habits.  Gimli clenched his hands.  "As Durin is my witness," he declared, "I will **never** be nosy again!"

 Off in the pond—underneath a clear sky strewn with stars—Legolas smiled.


End file.
